a/n: Look, I know that the kids in SnK have gone through some serious shit, but Armin is not Eren and Mikasa. He shot his first man like a badass and was vomiting hours later. Whether his actions were justified or not in this recent situation, I doubt he's going to be okay at first. Not to say he won't get over it, but he's kind of vulnerable.
Can we all just agree that everybody's gonna need counseling when this is over?
Sitting on the edge of Wall Maria, Armin cuts his thumb open with a dagger. Not for any twisted, psychological thrill, or to reaffirm his own mortality—in fact, he doesn't feel all that different, and this is what distresses him. He doesn't worry about being caught, either; there are too many of their number that are dead and dying, and given his swift recovery, he will certainly be overlooked.
Armin is numb from the shock of victory. They are all numb. Eren and Mikasa have left him be, perhaps sensing the profound amendment to his demeanour, or perhaps to grieve.
The sky is a clear and flawless blue. The wind up here is calm enough.
A thin red line scores into his pale flesh, and pain licks fresh across the cut. The colour is all-the-more stark against his pale skin, and glimmers in the sun's rays.
Armin waits. In time the wound clots over, normally. There is no steam. Maybe the regenerative process is affected by adrenaline. Then Armin wonders if he need only cut deeper.
His hands are shaking. He is shaking. The hilt of the blade rests in his other hand. It's a sick fixation, as he raises the metal to his skin and presses, with less care than before.
The next cut stings, sharply. His breath is ragged. He has to know, if he's…changed, if he is really like Eren, and Ymir, and Reiner and Annie and Bertholdt—
Bertholdt.
He still remembers: the great, skinless head peering at him from the darkness, strings of red and grey and blackened muscle stretching over the face. The eyes, too.
There was remorse.
Armin's hand is unsteady, and he bites back a gasp of pain, marking a long, jagged line from the pad of his thumb to the meat of his palm.
He's cut too deeply, he thinks. Nearly hyperventilating as he stares at the new rush of red blooming on his skin. He can feel his heart hammering.
And then there is a hiss, startling him, and warmth blooms along the cut, slowly, and turns to a burn. Armin grits his teeth against the new, searing pain. His eyes well up but he hardly blinks.
At last, he sees it; a thin, hazy curtain rising upon his skin, opaque, yet unmistakable. The wound is closing.
Armin whimpers in relief. He can smell the burning flesh and tries to catch his breath. He feels sick. He's going to be sick.
"Armin?"
Armin startles, dropping the knife, and cradles his healing palm in the other hand, hiding both in his lap. He swallows, dryly.
"H-hullo, Eren."
He knows his voice is shaking. He can see the droplets of scarlet on his shirt and trousers. It's going to be laughably obvious, what he's been doing to himself.
Armin dares not look up, and Eren pauses by his side. The quiet is funeral, abated by the gentle sizzle of regeneration.
"I'm not—" crazy, Armin wants to say, breaking the silence before Eren can, "—I-I just had to know, that's all, I had to know that I'm…."
His voice cracks.
Eren does not contest the matter. Armin doesn't need to look at him to know that he understands. And he is grateful, initially, that Eren doesn't ask why he's done this to himself, 'til he reflects on the reason why Eren would forgo such a question to begin with. He feels sick again.
"It won't help," says Eren quietly, sitting beside him.
Armin is shaking uncontrollably. He looks down at his hand, perfectly healed. The smell of burning flesh lingers.
In his mind's eye, the skinless head is still looking at him.
A half-hysterical snigger tears from his throat. He buries his face in both palms.
"Oh, God," he whispers. "You don't understand, Eren. You don't know what I—Bertholdt, it's like—like he knew, that I was going to…."
Armin realises he's crying.
"You did the right thing," Eren tells him sternly.
"I know," Armin says weakly, feeling pathetic. "I know, all right? That's not—or maybe it is the problem, I don't know, I don't know what to do now, I'm not like you and Mikasa, I can't just—!"
His voice has risen half an octave, cracking again. Eren says nothing. It's funny; they have survived so many battles beforehand, fought human and beast alike, and for once, both are at a loss for what to say.
Silence lingers, as Armin tries to compose himself.
"We're still alive," Eren says at last. "You and me and Mikasa, and the others. Commander Hange, and Captain Levi, as well. That's something. And we have to keep fighting, for…."
"The Commander," Armin agrees, wiping his nose. "And Hannes, and everyone else who has already given their lives." He offers a watery smile. "Think about it. We're so close to the basement. We've always talked about it, we've made plans, on how best to reach Shiganshina, and now—it's right within our reach." He exhales, voice hoarse, but stable enough. "If that's not a miracle in of itself, I don't know what else to call it."
He looks at Eren, who grins, hollowly, and responds: "Yeah."